


Warm Heart and Wet Noses

by onstraysod



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Wellington reveals a more human side of his personality after devastating losses are incurred in the Battle of Badajoz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lord Wellington asked Adjutant General Charles Stewart to read the new figures for a third time. Stewart cleared his throat, a grating sound in the silence of the room, and consulting the scrap of paper in his hand, he read:

"At last count, my lord, the number of wounded was 1,260. Missing: 840. Killed... 2, 338. Total casualties: 4,438."

Wellington gave a curt nod. "Thank you, General." The room, a small parlor in an old Spanish villa, lapsed back into a weary, guarded silence. Stewart, Scovell, Strathclyde, Dr. McGrigor, and Colonel William De Lancey stood grouped around one end of a long oaken table littered with dispatches, maps, and guttering wax candles set in wrought-iron candelabras, looking towards their commander who sat at the other end, his elbow on the table top, the fingers of one hand rubbing thoughtfully at his lips. No one spoke; no one moved. The casualty numbers seemed to hang in the air around them, as palpable as smoke and just as suffocating.

All at once Wellington leaned over, put his face in his hands, and - to the astonishment of the gathered officers - began to weep. There was no mistaking it, though in their surprise the men glanced at one another or stared, open-mouthed, as if incapable of comprehending it. Wellington's shoulders shook and his sobs, though muffled in his hands, were clear for all to hear: deep, anguished sobs that wracked his body. De Lancey suddenly turned to the other men and, although several of them outranked him, he motioned to the door. Hesitating to leave without Wellington's permission - but clearly too uncomfortable to bear witness any longer to his lordship's distress - Stewart , Scovell, and Strathclyde immediately departed. McGrigor lingered for a moment, watching Wellington with a trembling lip, but finally he allowed De Lancey to usher him out as well. When he was gone, De Lancey closed the double doors behind the men and slowly approached Wellington. **1**

"My Lord?" De Lancey stood a few feet from him, chewing at his bottom lip, uncertain what to do. It pained him deeply to see Wellington in such a state. If it were any other man - if it were Grant, for instance, or even the magician - he would wrap an arm around him, pull him close, and murmur some encouraging nonsense. But this was Wellington and he was but a lowly colonel; even if he were a general he would hesitate to offer an unsolicited touch or the least word that might be unwelcome.

Yet Badajoz had been a terrible ordeal for all of them. Rank had protected no one from the horror of the assaults of the past night: the ordinance flashing in the darkness, stones blasted from the city walls, column upon column of men rushing like water to fill the breaches, only to be cut down in swathes by bullets or swords, their corpses piling higher and higher: a ramp of writhing, screaming bodies for each succeeding rank to climb upon. It had been a night of scenes and sounds that would never fade from a man's memory, and the burden of it upon the mind of the commander who had ordered it was something that De Lancey could not quite comprehend.

"Please, my lord. Do not distress yourself." Not caring if the act damned him, De Lancey reached out with slightly shaking fingers and laid his hand lightly on Wellington's arm. His Lordship's sobs silenced immediately though his head remained bowed; he lowered one hand from his face and gripped De Lancey's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then, drawing a handkerchief from inside his coat, Wellington straightened up, cleared his throat, and dashed the tears from his cheeks with a few swipes of the cloth. He met De Lancey's gaze, composed once more, and gave another curt nod and a forced smile.

"Thank you, Colonel. I am quite myself again." He dabbed at a stray tear beneath his left eye, then tucked the handkerchief back into the inside pocket of his coat. "And what of the men in the town? Have they been brought to heel?"

"Not all, sir. There are still some parties looting on the south side of the city, but they are being rounded up as we speak and all should soon be set right."

"Hmm. Not all." Wellington's gaze turned towards the window of the room but De Lancey knew his inner eye was focused on a sight not visible from the villa: the bodies heaped like broken stones in the holes blasted in the walls of Badajoz. "The men are angry, De Lancey. Disgusted by the ordeal through which they passed last night, as well they should be. How can I blame them for rioting and looting - I, who ordered them to make those assaults, who sent them and their comrades forward into the hailstorm of French bullets?"

"You are not to blame for their deaths, my lord," De Lancey said. "You did not pull the trigger of those French muskets or light the fuses of those French guns.”

“Perhaps not, Colonel. But I put the men in the range of those muskets. I sent them marching right up to the emplacement of those guns.”

“What choice did you have? We are at war. A war we did not begin. The blood is upon Napoleon's hands, not yours.”

Wellington nodded. “Perhaps. But even so - how much can I ask of the men? How much can I demand before they consider the price too high to pay?”

De Lancey shook his head. “The men admire and respect you, my lord. They would follow you into Hell if you asked it of them.”

“Indeed Colonel?" Wellington arched an eyebrow and stared at the younger man. "Was that was not where I took them last night?”

“I do not think it could be, my lord,” De Lancey said. “Marshal Philippon would make a very poor Devil.”

This drew a laugh from Wellington and he stood, buttoning his coat. “You dismissed Scovell before I had a chance to ask him if any couriers had come in since last night. Do you know? Have we received any messages from Major Grant?”

De Lancey paused. “No, my lord. There has been no word from Grant.”

“That is distressing. It is unlike him. I fear it may mean that the major has encountered some difficulties. Indeed, it may mean that he has fallen into enemy hands.”

When De Lancey did not reply, Wellington glanced up and found the young man staring at him. His eyes were wide, startled almost, and he appeared somewhat paler in the light of the candles than he had but a few moments before. He seemed to have lost the power of speech, but presently he recovered himself enough to draw a deep breath and nod.

“As you say, my lord. It-- it is unlike him.” De Lancey cleared his throat and glanced at the doors. “May I be excused, my lord? I feel a bit light-headed.”

“Of course. Go - get some rest. You’ve been on duty all night. I myself am going to take a turn outside. Alone, preferably, if General Stewart will leave me in peace that long.”

Wellington followed De Lancey into the hall where they found the other staff officers gathered, waiting uncertainly. Wellington rounded upon them, dismissing them briskly with particular orders for each, and his tone and manner left them in no doubt that their commander was back to his familiar martial self. After they had all scurried off in different directions, Wellington went outside.

The morning sun was weak and watery, veiled by clouds and the lingering smoke from thousands of campfires and the explosions of the night’s assaults. Wellington averted his eyes from the ramparts of Badajoz as he walked, focusing instead on the tents that crowded, row upon row, around the villa, their canvas walls flapping slightly in the breeze. He had seen it earlier, as the sun was just beginning to rise: the hills of bodies in their red and blue uniforms, faces streaked with blood and powder. He would see it again later, riding Copenhagen past the bodies as they were carried out, placed in neat rows to await burial. He would doff his hat and hold it over his heart, proceed from there to the field hospital to walk among the wounded. But that would be later. For now he needed a distraction, some breathing space.

He walked, directionless, simply putting one polished boot in front of the other, simply moving. Would they cheer him, he wondered, the soldiers gathered to watch him ride past? Would they watch him with wide, reverent eyes? It had been another victory, after all, despite the cost. Or would the men turn resentful eyes upon him? Would they hiss and spit at him behind their hands? He would not blame them if they did. He rather felt like hissing at himself. It was not that he found any flaw in his orders, or even in their execution, though the delay in setting some of the charges had pushed the assault from the most propitious hour. Yet he could not deny that, as commander of the army, the spilled blood flowed to his door all the same. He did not often harbor doubts, and if he did they were fleeting and passed off soon enough, like a mist on the Iberian horizon. But he could not quite shrug off his present feeling of melancholy, no matter how far or fast he walked. Even the enthusiastic good mornings and sharp salutes he received from the men working outside their tents - no change visible in their awed expressions - could cheer him. Presently he turned on his heel and strode back towards the villa, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Near the villa Wellington happened upon one of his stewards, a man named Meriton. The sight of him inspired His Lordship with an idea.

“Meriton! Fetch Gentry and Duchess for me, if you please.”

Meriton saluted, surprised. “Gentry and Duchess, my lord? Are you going hunting?”

“No sir. I merely wish to spend some time in company with those who have no opinions as to my military expertise. Bring them to me inside, will you?”

Wellington returned to the parlor, brushing off several servants and staff officers who instantly clustered around him, eager to know his desires. Tossing his hat upon the table and unbuttoning his coat, he fell into a chair and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1** "On the same day that Marmont reached Sabugal, Doctor McGrigor at Badajos wrote to Colquhoun's brother Lewis... His letter tells of the storming and capture of Badajos and describes Wellington's reaction when given the casualty figures. 'When the thing was won and I told him what I believed the actual number, he really cried.' Fortescue says that 'he burst into a passion of tears'." - Ch. 15, _The First Respectable Spy: The Life and Times of Colquhoun Grant, Wellington's Head of Intelligence_ by Jock Haswell.


	2. Chapter 2

Soon enough the doors opened and two lithe, brown and white bodies sped towards him, tails whipping furiously. The British Army was not all that Wellington had brought with him to the Iberian Peninsula. Two dozen foxhounds had accompanied headquarters, facilitating the favorite pastime of Wellington and his officers. But of all the hounds Wellington’s particular favorites were the youngest: a male and female from the same litter, named Gentry and Duchess. Not yet a year old, the hounds were high-spirited and affectionate, more pets than sporting dogs. Meriton stood patiently at the doors while the foxhounds rushed to Wellington, but His Lordship soon dismissed the man.

“I think I can manage the two of you myself, don’t you?” Wellington asked the dogs as they both endeavored to scramble into his lap. Tongues lashed his hands with kisses as he scratched ears and necks, patted silky flanks, laughing as the dogs clambered over one another in a bid for the lion’s share of his attention. “Yes, I think your company is just what I need at the moment.”

The servants had yet to remove the remnants of the staff’s breakfasts and Wellington picked through the scraps on a couple of the plates, feeding Gentry and Duchess pieces of fried ham and deviled kidney from his hands. Then he knelt and sat upon the tile floor, letting the two dogs collapse against him as he scratched and petted them.

“Well what do you think, my beauties?” he asked them. “Have I let down my boys? Have I used them ill? It is a victory and that is all that will matter to the Ministers, damn them. They will not see how their tight-fistedness has pinioned me, making it necessary to sacrifice so many brave men. But the press and the people will be baying for my blood, no doubt of that, once the names of the dead are read out.”

Gentry had rolled onto his back and was chewing on the toe of Wellington’s boot in his excitement, but Duchess - who had always been a calm, well-mannered girl - simply lay across his legs, staring up at him with adoring, liquid eyes, tail thumping on the floor. Wellington smiled at her and, leaning over, pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Now keep that just between us, my dear,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Every time I’m caught kissing a lady it ends up in the newspapers, and we can’t have that, now can we?” He stroked her velvety ears, her calm beginning to affect him and turn his thoughts philosophical. “I am almost inclined to feel sorry for myself, Duchess. Indeed I am. An individual solider only feels his own pain, after all, but the commander of the Army-- He must carry all the individual pain, and all the deaths, upon his shoulders. It is a heavy burden for any man to bear. But what would you know about that, girl? As long as your belly is full and someone is around to pet you, you are content.”

Considering this led Wellington to reckon how long it had been since he had been petted: how long since he had slept with a woman’s warm, naked body in his arms. This thought, in turn, led him to the more melancholy consideration of all the women, young and old, who would never again hold their husbands or lovers after the storming of Badajoz. He sighed, thinking of the anguished expressions that would cross so many faces when the English papers printed the lists of the dead: the startled, wide-eyed shock, the cheeks gone pale with fear and despair...

“No, Duchess, I shall not pity myself. I shall not. Not when there are so many others who have real cause for--"

Wellington paused abruptly. He recalled, suddenly, vividly, the look on young De Lancey’s face when he’d mentioned the possible fate of Major Grant. That startled widening of his eyes, the abrupt pallor of his skin... Where had he seen that look before? Of course. He’d seen if first as a Lieutenant Colonel in the 33rd Foot, charged with delivering the news of a fellow officer’s death during the expedition to Flanders in 1794. The man’s young bride had looked at him with just such startled, glassy eyes, and a similar draining of blood from her cheeks had left her pretty face ashen. He had seen it again, most recently, in London, when on a brief return to consult with the Ministers he had met with the widow of an adjutant general of British forces, slain at Talavera. Hers had been a shocked visage, as if the fatal wound had struck her sympathetically, leaving her in perpetual pain but still clinging, hopelessly, to a bleak and empty life.

“By God, I’ve been a fool!” Wellington cried suddenly. He got to his feet, Gentry and Duchess rising eagerly with him. “You, sir, are far too rambunctious for the project I have in mind,” he said, addressing Gentry. “But you, my lady, will do very well indeed.” And he took up one of the leads which Meriton had left on the table and secured it around Duchess’s soft neck. “Come girl.”

Leaving Gentry in Meriton’s care, Wellington walked outside again, Duchess capering happily at his side. Because the villa was quite small the only members of his staff who had rooms inside with him were Stewart and Murray: all the others had to bivouac, like the enlisted men, in tents pitched within the villa’s encircling walls. Wellington led Duchess to one of these tents and paused outside the drawn flap.

“Colonel De Lancey, may I join you?”

There was a scrambling sound from within and the flap immediately flew open. De Lancey stood at attention in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

“My Lord?”

“At ease, Colonel. I’ve brought a lady to call upon you. May we come inside?”

“Of course, my lord.” De Lancey stood aside and Wellington entered the tent, taking a seat on a trunk and slipping the lead from Duchess’s neck. In almost a single bound the hound crossed the tent and pounced on De Lancey, who laughed and knelt to pet her.

“I thought you might entertain the lady for awhile, as a favor to me,” Wellington said, smiling as he watched De Lancey caress and coo at the dog. Whether the smile were more for the dog or for the man, he could not say.

“I would be most glad to, my lord." De Lancey's bright smile was quite a contrast to the anguished expression he'd worn earlier. "It has been some time since I have had the pleasure of female society.”

“I sympathize with you upon that point, God knows," Wellington sighed. "But I must warn you, sir, that one is a terrible flirt. She will steal your heart most impudently and then abandon you at the first sight of a squirrel.”

De Lancey grinned. “I do not mind. It is a most agreeable sacrifice to make for such beauty, my lord.” And De Lancey, like the overgrown boy he often appeared to be, sat down cross-legged upon the packed earth of the tent, careless of his breeches, and let Duchess climb in his lap and commence licking his face. “You are right, my lord,” he said, angling his head so he might speak without getting a tongue in his mouth, “She is quite forward.”

“Indeed.” Wellington watched them in silence for a time as De Lancey tickled Duchess’s stomach, scratched behind the fold of her ears, gently caught her wagging tail: all to Duchess’s complete delight. At last he spoke again.

“This war is a hard business, De Lancey.”

“It is, my lord.”

“It is hard on all the men, of course, but - do you know, I think it may be especially hard upon the officers.”

De Lancey glanced up from the squirming pile of dog in his lap, a curious expression on his face. “How so?”

“Well, I consider the matter of camaraderie, you see. The men, when they march into an engagement-- They have the benefit of the closeness of their comrades beside them. But we officers, a family though we may be, the nature of our duties - of this conflict - necessitates our frequent separation from one another. Thus we are deprived, at times, of that camaraderie that the enlisted men enjoy. And an added burden is given to us, to worry about those sent to duties elsewhere. We all feel it keenly, I think.”

De Lancey’s head was bowed, his gaze upon Duchess, and when he spoke his voice was quiet. Wellington fancied it might have been somewhat choked. “Indeed. Indeed we do, my lord.”

“Yet there is nothing that pleases me more than the close bonds that arise between my boys,” Wellington continued, his tone light. “Nothing I like to see better than two officers, joined in fellow feeling and regard, supporting one another during these times of adversity.” He paused for a moment. “You and Major Grant, for instance.”

De Lancey looked up sharply, his eyes wide with some emotion that Wellington thought might be alarm.

“I daresay you would have felt a great deal easier during last night’s assault, having Major Grant by your side.”

De Lancey was almost clutching at Duchess, who didn’t mind in the least bit. “Yes, my lord, I would have, but-- Not as much for myself, I think, as for him-- I mean to say, it is not so much that I would wish for him to have experienced Badajoz, but more that his absence-- Well, as you said, my lord, we must concern ourselves with those dispatched on different duties.”

“The danger of his missions weighs heavily upon you, you mean?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Wellington nodded slowly. “And upon me as well. Yet I am quite confident that we will hear from Major Grant in the next day or two.”

A brightness leaped into De Lancey’s eyes at this. “Are you, my lord?”

“Without doubt. Consider, Colonel De Lancey — Major Grant is as cunning and clever as a fox. Even if he were to fall into enemy hands, I am quite sure the French devils would soon find themselves grasping empty air.”

De Lancey smiled fondly. “Very likely.”

“But I do wonder if I should not send him out so frequently,” Wellington mused. “I have come to rely greatly upon the intelligence he brings me, but-- Now that we have the magician, perhaps-- Yes, I think that’s decided. Henceforth, Colonel, I shall keep Grant closer to us. What think you of that?”

De Lancey bent his head for a moment, burying his face in Duchess’s fur as if to hide it. “I-- I think that would be most agreeable, my lord. If-- if you feel that he can truly be spared from his missions--"

“Oh I believe he can. Merlin demonstrated for me a little trick he does with that damned basin he’s always carrying about. He fills it with water and he can make pictures in it, of things happening at a distance. It might prove useful in relieving Major Grant from some of his more dangerous assignments.” Wellington stood then. “If I do this, however, I will require your help, Colonel De Lancey.”

De Lancey gazed at Wellington while Duchess gnawed on one of the buttons of his waistcoat. “My lord?”

“Major Grant is a very active fellow, full of energy. Much like the litter mate of that impudent creature,” he said, gesturing fondly at the hound in De Lancey’s lap. He had started to scratch and caress her belly to distract her from his waistcoat buttons and she had flopped onto her back, her eyes blissfully closed. “I fear that Major Grant may grow bored of life as one of the staff. I will need you to help keep him busy - and happy - in his more sedentary duties.”

De Lancey was barely able to suppress a grin. “Yes, my lord. Of course. I will find tasks for him.”

“I daresay you will. Well. Very good. I go to visit the field hospital. Shall I leave Duchess with you, Colonel?”

“I would like that very much, my lord. As you see, we have become quite good friends.” And De Lancey smiled affectionately at the dog sprawled across his legs, tickling her whiskers as he spoke.

“As you wish, Colonel.” Wellington strode to the tent flap, then paused. Without looking back he said: “You are a credit to my staff, De Lancey, and to this Army, and I am very glad that you are a part of it. I hope you feel equally satisfied in serving me. In short, sir, I hope I am a commander worthy of men such as yourself and Major Grant. I truly do.”

De Lancey was so pleased - and so astonished - by His Lordship’s admission that he could not, immediately, respond. Nor did Wellington allow him the time to do so. He was out of the tent and half way across the courtyard to the villa before De Lancey thought of something suitable to say.

Wellington strode with a purpose now. There was much to do. He spied Meriton returning from the kennels where the dogs were kept and hailed him.

“Meriton! Have Copenhagen saddled. There are brave men laying in the field hospital - they need to see their commander’s face.”

“Very good, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to solitaryjo for directing me to the English ballad that provided the names for Wellington's foxhounds.


End file.
